The Closet Door Swings Both Ways
by Tione
Summary: "I am pouring myself a glass of orange juice, and also I am bisexual," Stiles says. Then: "Do bisexuals drink orange juice?" Apparently they do, because he drains it. It's delicious and refreshing. (Or, not all coming-to-grips-with-your-sexuality stories are fraught with angst.)


The Closet Door Swings Both Ways

by extantecstasy

Summary: "I am pouring myself a glass of orange juice, and also I am bisexual," Stiles says. Then: "Do bisexuals drink orange juice?"

Apparently they do, because he drains it. It's delicious and refreshing.

(Or, not all coming-to-grips-with-your-sexuality stories are fraught with angst.)

* * *

With Mumford & Sons in the background, Stiles slogs through the mountain of homework his teachers have seen fit to pile on before Thanksgiving Break, as if the massive amounts of food they'll consume over the holiday will hinder their learning when they get back. (It will.) He's been alternating between Algebra and AP Lit homework for half an hour, but has somehow only managed to finish his econ, except it's all in Spanish which is going to be _so fun_ to translate. In short, he needs some stress relief, stat. And with the hour or so until Scott comes over to mooch off his notes, Stiles thinks he can do just that.

He pushes his books off the bed with a lazily-flung leg and balances his computer on his stomach. His neck isn't in the most comfortable position but that won't matter in a minute. He scrolls through the videos in his special folder (titled PROBABLY PORN, because Stiles has seven or eight folders titled things like DEFINITELY PORN and NOT PORN AT ALL and THIS IS ACTUALLY MY HOMEWORK DAD to throw his snooping father off the scent) but between two lesbians fingering each other in the shower and a MILF getting slammed on a balcony, nothing really jumps out at him.

Must be time for some new fodder.

Stiles vets his porn with the same precision he applies to research. He likes to think of himself as an enthusiast or an aficionado, a connoisseur of sorts when it comes to pornography. It's an art form, in a way, a performance and just because it's free doesn't mean it has to be shit. Life is too short for crappy porn.

On one of his favorite websites, he browses through the girl on girl section, but decides he's in the mood for some good ol' fashioned fucking. He automatically hits the "filter by top rated" button and magically, the grainy ex-girlfriend videos are gone. He scrolls through titles, waiting for something to jump out at him.

_Jasmine brings two cocks to a happy ending_

Nah.

_Seductive vampire lusty appetite for cum_

Uhh… no. There's enough supernatural shit in his life. He doesn't need it in his private time too.

_MILF loves a warm cock in her cold canyon_

That… just sounds uncomfortable.

His eye lands on _Bad Girl Denise. _It looks promising, the thumbnail a shot of a blonde in a pink bra, mouth stretched around a cock. His own gives a little jump so he clicks the link.

The video loads almost instantly and thank god for high speed internet because buffering when you're all ready and raring to go is terrible, unusual punishment. The opening shot is of the woman lounging on the couch in matching pink lingerie, hair swung off to the side and legs tangling together. She absently caresses her stomach, eyes focused on something off camera.

Those are some awesome tits, Stiles notes. Those tits would get an "exceeds expectations." They are the Cadillac of tits, perky and shapely but still natural looking, gently hugged by the curves of her bra, just sheer enough to make out the contour of her nipples. Stiles could write a dissertation on how awesome her tits are.

A man, slim with just a hint of abs, saunters onto screen already naked, cock jutting proudly in front of him, and Stiles thinks, _wow_. That is a_ very attractive cock. _

His hand stops at the waistband of his sweatpants and he jerks his eyes to the ceiling, holding his breath.

Stiles just thought a penis was attractive.

Stiles just thought a _penis _was _attractive. _

Like someone peeking through their fingers at a scary movie, Stiles forces his gaze back to the screen and tries not to freak out. He needs to look at this objectively. Was he just admiring the cock aesthetically? You can think someone has a nice dick, no homo and all that, right? It was long and curved, not too thick, smooth and flushed. Objectively, it was a very nicely formed dick.

Judging from the way he wanted to wrap his hand around it and see if it felt as nice as it looked, he kind of maybe wasn't admiring it for its form. He kind of maybe wanted to put it in his mouth, or maybe other orifices.

Fuck.

Stiles slams his laptop shut, heart pounding.

So.

Stiles likes the cock.

He opens his laptop and the video automatically resumes, right on a close-up of that guy's penis sliding between Denise's boobs and what's that, Mr. Boner? You're ready to go off at a stiff breeze and there hasn't even been any friction yet? He lets out (what might be) a shriek and slams the laptop closed again. They have a stare off for a minute, Stiles' chest heaving in a way reminiscent of a swooning romance heroine, but it's a fruitless gesture since his laptop doesn't hold the answers he needs, besides what it already gave him.

Stiles is not really thinking as he gets up and shuffles downstairs in a haze. The house is familiar, but it's almost like he's seeing it in a new light yet not really seeing it at the same time. He somehow ends up in front of the fridge, pulling out the orange juice with extra pulp and then he blinks and his favorite Tweety Bird mug is in his hand. So he uncaps the juice.

"I am pouring myself a glass of orange juice, and also I am bisexual," Stiles says to himself. Then: "Do bisexuals drink orange juice?"

Apparently they do, because he drains it. It's delicious and refreshing.

He wanders back upstairs but hesitates to go into his room, where his laptop is sitting innocently on his bed, mocking him. He goes into the bathroom, doesn't bother to close the door since his dad is on duty, and thinks idly to himself, _this is my first piss as a bisexual _as he relieves himself. He washes his hands with the same Dove soap bar as yesterday and just studies himself in the mirror.

_These are bi lips_, he thinks as he pokes at them. _And bi cheeks. I have bisexual eyes_.

And oh my god, he needs to stop _narrating his identity crisis_, because now that he thinks about it? This is not news. He feels stupid, because of course he's bisexual! He's always been bisexual! He has a poster of Viggo Mortensen next to his poster of Sarah Michelle Gellar. He owns both S Club 7 CDs. He sent Michael Hansen a Shakespearean sonnet for Valentine's Day in fifth grade.

He feels like it's obvious, in hindsight. The liking girls part isn't new, although neither is the liking boys bit apparently. He just… wasn't on the same page yet. He's found other men attractive before – like, even Jackson! And Jackson is such a jackass that his personality negates any attraction! Even Danny has trouble being attracted to Jackson!

_And Stiles still thought he was attractive. _

For fuck's sake, he refers to Derek Hale as the Big Hottie in his head sometimes, eyebrows be damned. He sighs, but it's more "oh my god, I'm an idiot" than "how will I go on, my life is over."

"I need to go for a walk. My first bisexual walk," he tells his reflection. Stiles takes the stairs two at a time, fumbles on his tennis shoes, slips on a hoodie, snags his keys from the end table, and triple checks that he locked the door behind him before he's slipping out into the crisp air. It feels good, cleansing, but he's aware that Scott is coming over soon and he needs to get his thoughts in order before then.

He lets his feet carry him to the gas station. There are rows of sweating energy drinks on display, so he grabs an Amp because it's the cheapest and joins the line at the register. The woman in front of him is arguing about a lotto ticket; he tunes it out, jiggling his leg impatiently.

Eventually she storms away and he sets the can on the counter. "That all?" the clerk asks, unperturbed.

"I'm bisexual!" he blurts out. The girl raises an eyebrow, not impressed.

"But you really didn't need to know that!" Stiles says quickly, his voice getting all weird and panicky. "Here is five dollars for the drink, you can keep the change and also, this never happened!"

He flees.

He flees all the way back to his house and dives into his bed before he starts blushing, because the act of saying it out loud has somehow made it more real. He wonders if saying Scarlett Johansson three times out loud will make her more real in his bedroom. He keeps doing it, keeps checking with these tentative mental tangents, to make sure he does still like girls, that he isn't just full-on gay. Full frontal gay. It's a possibility, after all, with all these conflicting philosophies about bisexuality and whether it actually exists. But comparing ScarJo and Chris Evans side by side confirms that, at least for him, both genders are on the metaphorical table. Stiles is hip with his sexual orientations, has been since he found out about Danny, so he's wracking his brain for all he knows about biphobia and bi erasure and-

Scott bursts into his bedroom, panting. "Sorry I'm late! I ran the whole way."

And Stiles just says, "I'MBISEXUAL." And whoops, that wasn't supposed to come out of his mouth, but it just did. (There's probably a joke in there somewhere.) He resists the urge to pull the blanket over his head and stares at the spot above Scott's head.

Scott throws himself into Stiles' computer chair, spinning so he's facing the bed, legs stretched out in front of him. "You're making terrified eyes at me. Also, those weren't words you just said."

In for a penny, he supposes, and it's not like he was planning on keeping this a secret anyway. His mouth is just, once again, pretty far ahead of him. But before he can respond, Scott squints at him and asks, "Are we talking about the bestiary again?"

His voice sounds thin and reedy when he says, "No, Scott, I was watching porn," and at the word, Scott rolls his eyes, "and I thought the chick had really hot tits, but then this guy had a really awesome cock and I realized that I might be bi." If he rushes the end of the sentence a la Harry Potter and the Yule Ball invitation, well, no one can judge him. This is a lot scarier than asking Cho Chang out.

And Scott smiles at him, the one where he quirks his mouth but his lips are pursed so his face looks lopsided, and replies, "Oh, you said bisexual, I thought you said bestiary. You should really enunciate."

Stiles is still in panic mode, though, and doesn't know what to say or how to interpret Scott's vague sentence. He's not embracing Stiles with open arms, right, but nor is he shoving Stiles out the window and proclaiming him a freak, not that he ever expected that in any universe. They lived through that one really awkward year in sixth grade when Stiles wanted to be Superman and Scott wanted to be the Black Panther, so they were mortal enemies on opposite sides of the Marvel-DC Comics war. They got through that, so they'll get through this. But there's a difference between knowing his werewolf best friend will accept him, and hearing it. And Stiles kind of needs to hear it.

Scott lurches up and Stiles tenses inexplicably, but Scott just kicks his shoes off. They catch on the carpet, skidding to a rest under the bed. Scott waggles his eyebrows and suddenly, Stiles knows exactly what's happening.

"No!" he barely gets out, before the solid weight of his friend is pressing him into the mattress because Scott has forgotten that he isn't _ten _anymore, when tackle-hugging his Stiles didn't end up with a Stiles-shaped pancake. "Uuuuugh, Scott, get your wolfy ass off me."

He bats at Scott's shoulders, but Scott snuffles into his ear and wiggles until Stiles' bony bits aren't stabbing him. "Nope!" Scott blows into his ear. "You were still making Bambi eyes at me."

Stiles' heaves a dramatic sigh. "You smell like onions."

"That's why I was late."

"And sweat. Sweaty onions. Gross."

"You like it."

"I am sufficiently relaxed and comforted, now please move."

"No."

"Oh my god, I hope my dad walks in and thinks we're gay together, it would serve you right."

Scott pushes his head against Stiles' mouth, kind of getting his hair everywhere, which serves the purpose of also making him shut up since he's gagging on it.

"Fine," he mumbles into Stiles' neck. "I need your notes anyway."

When Scott rolls off him and onto the other side of the bed, he does feel less jittery and less caught up inside his own head. Being forcibly cuddled has apparently helped his mental state, but hell if he's ever going to let Scott know that. He shuffles over to his desk and plops down in the chair, ignoring the creak when he hits it at the wrong angle, and tosses his notebook at Scott. It would have hit him in the face, had his preternatural reflexes not caught it midair.

"Thanks!" he says happily, riling through the pages.

Stiles turns to his God: Google.

"Duuuuude," Stiles says a few minutes later. He turns to face Scott, who is blatantly copying his algebra. Stiles is too full of goodwill towards his friend to make him stop.

"What?"

"I should totally get this shirt." He tilts the computer screen in Scott's direction.

"I can't see it."

"Then come here!"

"But I'm comfortable…"

"Ugh. It says 'I'm like a slinky – fun for boys and girls!" There's another one he's eyeing that reads "bisexuals aren't real, we're just incredibly sexy hallucinations."

What? He's never been shy about wearing t-shirts of things he's interested in.

"You're making unhappy noises," Scott says after a few minutes of scrolling through pages and pages of information. He closes the notebook and tosses it back at Stiles.

"Because the internet is not very much help right now!" he fumes, glaring at his laptop. That's two strikes today. "I am googling _so I'm bisexual now what? _and it is so not helpful. How am I supposed to research when there's no information except for shitty parental advice pamphlets? I don't need tips on accepting your kid's sexuality. I am said kid! Where's my help?"

"You could talk to Issac, he's bisexual," Scott says. "Can I get your econ notes too?"

Stiles makes a pterodactyl noise with his mouth that he hadn't thought was humanly (or wolfly) possible, the chair spinning when he flings his arms around. "I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M NOT YOUR ONLY BI FRIEND SCOTT I THOUGHT I WAS SPECIAL."

Scott ignores his dramatic hand flailing and grabs the Family Guy notebook that houses his econ classwork. Stiles won't admit it, but he does feel the final easing of worry in his belly, secretly pleased because obviously, Scott and Issac are still friends so Scott is genuinely okay with it. He's not just pretending to be okay while he comes to terms with it, or whatever.

He's feeling pretty affectionate and happy with his life right now, so Stiles drops onto the end of the bed, on top of Scott's feet. "I can make all the bi jokes right now. Like, so many. 'Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and I traveled them both." Stiles snorts at his own joke.

"Is that from a video game?"

"What?" Stiles props himself up on his elbows. "Oh my god, come on Scott, we _just _studied that poem last week."

Scott shrugs, but then his face brightens. "I have one! So, do you do all your shopping at Best _Bi_?"

"Scott. That was the worst pun ever. Shame on you. So much shame, dude." And Stiles' finally gives into the impulse to squish his face, smiling and warm with happiness.

(Later, Scott will nudge him with his shoulder until they're lying side by side, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and they will have a conversation that goes like this –

"You still like boobs, right? We can still talk about who has the best boobs?" Scott asks.

"Duh. Boobs are awesome."

"Best pair of boobs in the school?"

"Still Lydia, dude. Always Lydia. I will be ninety and my answer will still be Lydia."

Scott gets dreamy. "Allison's are amazing."

Stiles makes gagging noises, which Scott takes to mean "please keep talking about your girlfriend's breasts as if she doesn't know where to get a whole clip of wolfsbane bullets" until Stiles shoves his hand in Scott's mouth. Their giggles fade into the sort of silence where their breathing is loud and obvious.

"Since we talk about boobs, I guess we can talk about butts too."

"Scott, what?"

"Like, you know, which guy has the best butt and all."

"Oh." Derek's immediately flashes behind his eyes in very graphic detail, because apparently his brain has been storing a repository of images featuring Derek's well-formed derriere, but umm, no, no for so many reasons, starting with the fact that he's Scott's Alpha and ending with the fact he's kind of a douchenozzle. "Do you mean just butt? Or butt plus personality?"

"Both," Scott says.

"Danny," he replies after a moment.

But for now, Stiles lets him copy his notes and he doesn't even try to trick him about which pages they're supposed to read for AP Lit.)


End file.
